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ζKeres Death Carousel
Swings and woundabouts hearts slave to life
Death cruel saviour drips venom filled tears with
lying in wait,
knocking blindly at the armature wire,
filled with turgid fillers,
stuffed to the gills
where no one can investigate
congealed encased opiates of pain,
a chasm bubbles
sloe burning on the branch
when know 1 came
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
Tumescent Terminus PTCA PK et al 11.11.2016 11.11
Ambulance doors open.
Expectancy heightens everyone senses.
With no dissent she is lowered down from the ambulance put on a stretcher and wheeled down a corridor.
‘You’re ok’ said the ambulance man pushing fast.
A face appears above hers, eyes brown and intense he’s telling her she needs to sign a form, a disclaimer in case she bleeds to death, has a stroke, a h……..her mind which had been compliant and silent is now in overload: too much assiduity and action.
‘I am not signing’ she thinks
What is he on about?
She hates being centre of attention and
mostly she hates surprises and drama. Why is he making all these statements ?
Wheels turning the roof and walls appear glassy with the movement. He walks backward and quickly beside her.
She doesn’t understand; please sign the form he says again.
Quizzically she stares at him; his soft eyes dominate with a pleading #DoIt #fucking sign it #please
He propped a board up with paper on it for her to sign.
Her arm stretches out, this is strange until now she had no Continue reading “Tumescent Terminus PTCA PK et al 11.11.2016 11.11”
The goddess [Flora] replied to my questions, as she talks, her lips breathe spring roses: ‘I was Chloris, whom am now called Flora. Latin speech corrupted a Greek letter of my name. I was Chloris, Nympha of the happy fields [Elysion], the homes of the blessed (you hear) in earlier times. To describe my beauty would mar my modesty: it found my mother a son-in law god. It was spring, I wandered; Zephyrus (the West Wind) saw me, I left. He pursues, I run: he was the stronger; and Boreas gave his brother full rights of rape by robbing Erechtheus’ house of its prize [Oreithyia]. But he makes good the rape by naming me his bride, and I have no complaints about my marriage.
‘I enjoy perpetual spring: the year always shines, trees are leafing, the soild always fodders. I have a fruitful garden in my dowered fields, fanned by breezes, fed by limpid fountains. My husband filled it with well-bred flowers, saying: “Have jurisdiction of the flower, goddess.” I often wanted to number the colours displayed, but could not: their abundance defied measure.
‘As soon as the dewy frost is cast from the leaves and sunbeams warm the dappled blossom, the Horae (Seasons) assemble, hitch up their coloured dresses and collect these gifts of mine in light tubs. Suddenly the Charites (Graces) burst in, and weave chaplets and crowns to entwine the hair of gods. I first scattered new seed across countless nations; earth was formerly a single colour. I first made a flower from Therapnean blood [Hyakinthos the hyacinth], and its petal still inscribes the lament. You, too, narcissus, have a name in tended gardens, unhappy in your undivided self. Why mention Crocus, Attis or Cinyras’ son, from whose wounds I made a tribute soar?’”